


Chain of Command

by howelleheir



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Butt Plugs, Caning, Collars, Developing Relationship, Flogging, Hand Jobs, Healthy Relationships, Kink Renegotiation, M/M, Praise Kink, Subspace, Switching, Workplace Relationship, relationship drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 00:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6682081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rollins has a problem keeping work and home separate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chain of Command

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr ask prompt. It was supposed to be a drabble, but then I had feelings.  
> The prompt was:  
> "Something that explores the tricky power balance when Brock (the sub) as STRIKE Commander has to order his 2IC (and dom) Jack to do something he isn't happy with."

“Fifty.” Jack says. “Count ‘em.”

And Brock says, “Yes, sir.”

_Crack_.

“One.”

_Crack._

“Two.”

_Crack._

“Three.”

_Crack._

“Four.”

And it’s easy. Nice and easy, a little thud, a little sting, all rushing straight to his head, letting him fly. Until he gets a little too lost and…

“Forty-Six…”

_Crack._

Nothing.

“Hey, you with me?” Jack asks.

“Mh-hm.”

“Why’d you stop counting?”

“Didn’t.”

“You falling asleep on me?”

“No, sir.”

“Start over. At one.”

“Yes, sir.”

_CRACK._

Suddenly, he’s back down. That one _really_ stung, a deep stroke, right across his shoulders.

“One!”

_CRACK._

“Two!” _CRACK._ “Ngh...Three!” _CRACK._ “Four!”

_Crack. Crack. Crack._

“Ah! Five! Six! Seven!”

_CRACK._

“Fuck! Eight!” _CRACK._ “Nine!” _Crack. Crack._ “Ten! Eleven! Twe-”

“What was that?”

“Eleven, sir.”

Jack chuckles. “No, I don’t think that’s what you said. I think you counted one I didn’t give you yet. Start over. At one.”

Brock has tears in his eyes, but he focuses past the pain. “Yes, sir.”

 

He’s sore in the morning, and his raw skin sticks to his undershirt. He hasn’t had nearly enough sleep.

“Jack,” he mumbles, pulling on his uniform. Then, a little louder, “Jack, come on, get up. We gotta move. Alarm went off twenty fucking minutes ago.”

“I’m up,” Jack says. He’s not up. Not even close. “Just give me a minute.”

“I’m walking out the door in about two minutes. You wanna drive separate?”

“Yeah, go on. I’ll catch up.”

“I’m not waiting up for you,” Brock says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “If you’re late, your ass is riding a desk all week.”

“I fucking told you, I’m right behind you.”

 

He’s not there. Rumlow holds the team for five minutes, and Rollins doesn’t show. His phone rings the second they pull out. He steels himself. If he lets this slide, he loses the respect of every man on his team. If he makes it personal, he’s going too far. Time to walk the line and treat Rollins like he’d treat anybody else.

“Rollins, why isn’t your ass in this van?”

“I’m here, turn around.”

“Negative, Lieutenant Commander Rollins. For the rest of the week, your title is Office Assistant Rollins.”

The team breaks out into half-stifled laughter.

“I can _see_ the fucking van,” Rollins snaps. “You’re seriously not gonna turn around?”

“Nope.”

“And, just what the _fuck_ am I supposed to do?!”

“Grab a desk and don’t bend over when the Secretary’s around.”

And the team _loses_ it, but Rollins doesn’t seem too amused. He just says, “Yeah, that’s _real_ fucking funny. We’ll talk about this tonight.”

Rumlow hangs up and rolls his eyes at his boys, laughs with them a little. It doesn’t feel right, though. It feels like there wasn’t a right decision on the table.

 

“Rollins!” Rumlow calls as he and the team come in to file their reports. Rollins looks up from his desk, and his eyes are venomous.

“Yes, _sir_?” he says. He’s doing that thing where he grits his back teeth and that tendon in his jaw looks like it might snap. He’s still furious.

_Ignore it. Don’t let him escalate. This is work. You’re his CO, not his boy. Act like it._

“Need you to sign off on this incident report,” Rumlow says. He’d bumped the week’s field suspension down to three days, but Rollins just sneered at it.

“You’re keeping me on a desk?” he asks. It sounds like a dare.

Rumlow points at the paper. “Three days. Get in on time and it won’t happen.”

Rollins picks up his pen and hovers over the line for a moment, but then puts it back down and looks up again, eyes narrowed. “Is this because of last night?”

“Lower your goddamn voice,” Rumlow hisses.

“Seriously,” Rollins says, a little softer, but not enough for Rumlow’s comfort. “Is this shit because I went a little hard on you last night? Now you’re taking it out on me, field suspension, talking shit around the team, make yourself feel like a man again, is that it?”

“No,” Rumlow says firmly. “You were late, you held us up, and you got exactly what any of the other guys would’ve got. Now sign the damn report.”

Rollins gives a dangerous little laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, sure.”

He scribbles his name hastily on the line and stands up, drawing himself up to his full height, which is, admittedly, about a half a foot above Rumlow.

_Don’t flinch. Let him posture. He’s just testing you._

“Here’s you go,” Rollins says. “Three days, sir. _Thank you, sir_.”

He punctuates this with three firm claps across Rumlow’s back, right on the worst of his welts from last night, the ones his tac vest rubbed raw all day.

 

That night, they argue in circles for two and a half hours before Brock finally throws his hands up and leaves. He needs to cool off and he’s not going to do it if they keep starting the same argument back up all night. He gets in his car, but doesn’t even pull out of the driveway. Just falls asleep against the window, and when he wakes up, his neck is in knots and his ass is numb, and Rollins’ car is already gone. He heads into the office. No op today, so it’s just them and a handful of other officers catching up on paperwork and reviewing reports.

There’s a package on his desk when he gets in. A little gift box, long and narrow, with an envelope on top. The handwriting isn’t Rollins’. He rips it open, and pulls out a three-page packet on WSC letterhead.

> _Rumlow:_
> 
> _I’ve attached a copy of SHIELD’s conflict of interest/fraternization policy, in case you need a refresher._
> 
> _As you know, we all have bigger things to worry about than a_ **_discreet_ ** _relationship between an agent and his Commanding Officer,_ **_as long as the chain of command is respected_ ** _. Figure it out by Monday or put in for a transfer to another unit._
> 
> _I sincerely hope that this gift will help us all avoid an unnecessary headache._
> 
> _-AGP_

Rumlow feels sick to his stomach. How did Pierce find out about this? Someone had to have said something, right? Which meant that someone else knew, which meant that it wouldn’t be long before _everybody_ knew, if they don’t already. Then again, Pierce was an intelligence specialist in his day, so he could have found out on his own. And it doesn’t sound like he disapproves, exactly. And what _gift_ does he think would make him more “discreet” and “respectful of the chain of command” with Rollins?

Curious, he lifts the box’s lid.

Oh, no.

Oh, hell, no. No way this was going over well. Does he wish it would? Yeah, that’d be great. But Jack’d never go for it. Not in a million years. He’ll have to give it back to Pierce. Tell him it won’t work, but he’ll figure something else out.

He finds himself peeking inside the box again.

Well, maybe it’s worth a shot.

 

“Rollins, I’m taking a lunch, come with me.”

Rollins looks up from his computer with a raised eyebrow. “No thanks,” he says.

Pulling up a chair, Rumlow tries to soften his tone a little. “Come on, seriously,” he says. “I wanna talk to you. I wanna fix this.”

Again, Rollins looks up with the same expression, but this time he caves. He sighs and logs out, standing. “Alright, come on.”

They walk a few blocks to a sandwich shop with a patio that’s suitably deserted this time of day, order their food and sit at a table far from the entrance.

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” Jack says suddenly. It’s a little shocking. Apologizing isn’t something that comes naturally to him.

“Yeah,” Brock says. “It’s cool. I’m, uh- I’m sorry, too.” He’s not, not for what he did. He was in the right there and he knows it, but now’s not the time to try to get the last word in. And he is sorry, in the I-wish-we-weren’t-fighting-I-hate-when-you’re-mad-at-me way.

“Well, I have a hard time...separating home and work, so…”

Brock nods. There it is. Perfect segue.

“I have an idea...about that,” he says. “Something that might help.”

Jack looks stricken. “Tell me you didn’t ask for a transfer, you dumb son of a-”

“No!” Brock says. “I didn’t. Nothing like that.”

“Okay. Sorry. Go ahead.”

He takes a deep breath and reaches in his pocket. Is he really doing this? What’s the worst that could happen? Jack could say no. Jack could throw it back in his face. Jack could _laugh_ at him. Yeah, that’d be the worst, but it’s too late now, because the box is on the table, and he can’t take it back.

“I want you to wear this,” he said, passing the box to Jack. “Just while we’re at work. As a reminder. For both of us.”

Looking a little puzzled, Jack opened the lid, and Brock tried to dissect his expression, interpret every nuance to come up with what he might be thinking and he takes it in - a heavy sterling chain, secured at either end with a matching padlock that was engraved _B.R.._ A day-collar.

He’s staring at it too long, and his face hasn’t changed a fraction. He finally picks it up, feels its weight, turns the lock over in his hands. Looks at Brock, who almost apologizes and begs him to forget the whole thing, but he takes the key out of the box, opens the lock, and fastens the chain around his neck, clicking the lock into place and handing over the key.

Jack swallows, hard, and says, “Thank you, sir.”

It takes Brock a minute to realize he’s serious.

 

For the rest of the day, Rollins does what he’s told. There are a couple of times he looks like he wants to make a smart-ass remark or talk back, or question Rumlow’s judgment, but he just touches the neck of his shirt, right where’s he’s tucked the little padlock underneath, takes a breath, and says, “Yes, sir.” It’s a start, at least. When they get home and change out of their work clothes, Rumlow takes the silver key, now on his keychain, removes the collar, and hangs it on the bedpost.

Jack takes the sturdy leather collar from the dresser drawer and fastens it around Brock’s neck, pulls him in by the heavy o-ring, kisses him slow and deep.

“I’m in a pretty good mood,” Jack says, working his hands over Brock’s back, keeping him close. “Had a good day at work. Been on a desk for two days, so I’m not too tired. Feeling pretty patient. I think I wanna take my time with you tonight. Think you’d like that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.” Jack gives him another long kiss, then breaks away. “You get those clothes off and lay down. Face down. I’ll be there in just a minute.”

Brock undresses and folds his clothes, leaves them in a neat stack on the end of the bed, while Jack opens up the big trunk at the end. Less than a minute later, Brock feels Jack climb onto the bed and straddle his hips. His hands glide over Brock’s back, coating his skin with a heavily-scented lotion.

“Shoulders still pretty tender?” he asks.

“Yes, sir. A little.”

“Okay, I won’t do them. Just relax as much as you can. You’re gonna need it.”

That makes Brock a little nervous, but Jack’s hands working his low back take it off his mind right away. He really puts his weight into it, shifting onto one palm, and then the other. It feels like heaven. After a few minutes of that, Jack moves on to his hips, then his thighs, kneading out every last bit of tension in Brock’s body.

“You good?” Jack asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Roll over. On your side. Knee up you your chest.”

As soon as Brock’s in place, Jack’s lubing him up, pressing a finger in, then two. Brock sighs as he twists in a third. He’s so relaxed, it’s not much of a stretch, just enough to feel a little tension, a little pressure, a little burn as Jack slides his fingers in and out. He fights the urge to clench up, to roll his hips into it. Stay relaxed. Be good for him.

“Ready for a little more?”

“Please,” he says. Jack takes his time pulling out, making sure Brock doesn’t tighten up. He’s being so gentle that it puts Brock on edge. He’s only like this when he’s got plans that involve pushing him right to the edge of his limits.

Brock glances over his shoulder at Jack, who’s coating a plug in lube. It’s the biggest one they own, one that Jack bought as a joke. It was meant to intimidate more than to actually be used.

_Oh, fuck._

The tip of the plug presses into his asshole. It’s not much wider than three of Jack’s fingers, but it’s sharply tapered.

“Relax,” Jack says sharply, holding the plug steady, just barely inside him. “I’m gonna take it slow. You can do this.”

Brock says, “Yes, sir,” and buries his face in a pillow, steadies his breath. Once he’s relaxed again, Jack presses forward, so slow he’s barely moving at all, only giving Brock what he can take, then holding still, letting him get used to it.

“That’s my good boy,” Jack murmurs as he starts pushing again. “Halfway there. How’re you doing?”

“Good,” Brock breathes.

“Any pain?”

“No, sir.”

And now Jack’s going a little faster, not just waiting for Brock to open up to him, but actually stretching him, pulling back on the plug and pushing a little further, fucking it into him, staying right on the edge of  too-much-too-fast. Brock can’t keep quiet now - he’s panting and moaning at that deep ache every time Jack thrusts in a little more.

When he’s down to the last third of the plug, he slows down, goes back to that steady pressure, and good thing, because it’s starting to hurt.

“Hey,” he says, going still again. “Almost there. I want you to turn on your back. Nice and slow for me. Keep your knees up.”

Brock takes a breath and lifts his knee, letting it fall to the side. Jack’s pulled back on the plug a little, enough to take the burn out of it when Brock twists around it. He puts his weight into his feet to lift his hips and settle on his back. Shifting a little closer, Jack crosses his legs and lets Brock rest a foot against each knee, drawing his legs up close to his chest.

It takes a little time for Jack to work the plug in as deep as it had been, but as soon as he has, he keeps pushing. The stretch is intense now, and Brock tries to stay still and breathe deep, but it’s not helping much.

“I - I don’t think I can,” he grits out. “It’s too much.”

“Yes, you can,” says Jack, but he stills the plug anyway. “You’re almost there. Touch yourself.”

Brock inhales, deep, and then nodds. “Yes, sir.”

Having a hand on his cock does help. It wraps the stretch up in aching pleasure, takes the bite out of it. He finds a steady rhythm and settles into it, doesn’t hold back his long, low groans as he braces against Jack’s knees, tilts his hips down, and slides himself further onto the plug.

“That’s it…” Jack purrs, holding still and letting Brock come to him. “Come on, just a little bit more.”

“Fuck!” Brock gasps as he pushes just past the widest part of the plug, swallowing it up and clenching around the base, the stretch and burn suddenly replaced by an incredible fullness.

Jack swats his hand away from his cock and takes it in his own, gripping hard and pumping slow. With the other hand, he grips the base of the plug and thrusts - not enough to move it very much, but it doesn’t take much. The two sensations together twist in Brock’s stomach, make him arch up and grasp at the sheets and let out a broken litany of, “Oh, fuck, oh, shit, god, yes, fuck!”

“Look at you,” Jack says, speeding up a little to match the pace of Brock’s involuntary thrusts. “Such a good boy...Getting close, aren’t you? It’s alright. Come on.”

And he’s glad Jack gave him permission, because he couldn’t have held back much longer, anyway, not with Jack’s voice talking to him like that, all low and husky, and Jack’s grip around him, almost too tight, and that plug filling him up and moving inside him. His breath goes harsh and ragged, and he curls up, searching for more sensation, and his head goes back, and he’s practically screaming, no words now, just blind, desperate need.

He falls back, boneless and buzzing, as Jack gives him a few more strokes, gentler now, and works the plug out of him. With all his muscles slack, it comes out a little easier than it went in, but Jack slides it out slow after the widest part is out, letting Brock’s body push it out at its own pace. He gives Brock’s thigh a firm squeeze and hurries to leave the plug in the bathroom sink. He’s back before Brock comes down too much, and wraps him in a fleece throw, lays next to him and lets him rest heavily against his shoulder. Helps him sip some water from a bottle with trembling hands.

“You okay?” he asks, fingers running over Brock’s scalp.

Brock manages a dazed, “Yeah…” He’s more than okay. He feels like he could sleep for a week.

Jack smiles. “That’s my boy.”

 

In the morning, Rumlow slides the silver chain around Rollins’ neck and clicks the lock into place before he leaves. Rollins isn’t due in for another two hours, but Rumlow’s in the field today.

“Hey,” he says, shaking his shoulder.

“Hmm?”

“I’m heading out. Your alarm’s set for seven. Your ass better be at your desk by eight, or you’re getting another four days of field suspension, got it?”

Rollins stretches and smirks, looking up at him through heavy eyelids. “Yes, sir,” he says.

And Rumlow thinks that maybe they’ve finally got this thing figured out.


End file.
